Bittersweet
by owlcroft
Summary: Revenge is like balsamic vinegar.


This is a not-for-profit effort and the main characters are not my creations. All rights remain with the copyright holders, whoever and wherever they may be.

My thanks to Susan, Proofreader Par Excellance and to Deb, who won't let me kick a woman when she's down.

BITTERSWEET

by

Owlcroft

Mark McCormick hand-signalled a right turn and swerved the shopping cart into Aisle 7. There'd been a small "discussion" over yellow mustard or brown and he generously decided to end the Great Mustard Controversy by getting both. As he reached for the icky yellow version, he noticed a young woman further down the aisle. She was glaring furiously at the top shelf, arms akimbo, and he realized here was a chance to do his daily good deed. Not to mention getting acquainted with an attractive member of the opposite sex.

"Uh, excuse me," he said politely. "Can I reach something for you?" As he looked down at her he realized just how short she was. _Five feet high tops_, he thought. There was nothing else remarkable about her, though. Just a round little face, short curly brown hair, and a slight resemblance to a chipmunk. _A **cute** chipmunk_, he amended.

The chipmunk glanced up at him and smiled with relief. "Thanks. Could you just get me that bottle, there?" She pointed. "No, the one next to it." As he handed her the bottle, she smiled again. "Thank you. If these have to be up on the top shelf, I wish they'd put in some ladders for us normal-sized people."

Mark laughed. "Yeah, but then the rest of us would have to shop on our knees. What is that stuff, anyway?"

"Balsamic vinegar." She held the bottle up to show him. "It's a little thicker, a little . . . oh, sweeter, I guess, than regular vinegar."

McCormick looked at the glass bottle. "What do you use it for? I mean, that regular vinegar wouldn't work for?"

"Oh, you can use it for anything that you'd put vinegar on, but it's terrific on spinach salad with sausage and roasted peppers. Or, you can reduce it so it's almost a sauce and pour it over mushrooms. It's so expensive, though, that people aren't really familiar with it."

"Well, I sure wasn't." Mark looked back at the top shelf. "Is there anything else I can get for you? Some imported olives, some capers?" He smiled at her again. "A cup of coffee?"

She looked at him seriously for a moment, then bit her lip to hide a smile. "All right. But first I have to finish shopping and," she turned to look at his cart, "you obviously aren't through, either."

McCormick glanced at his groceries. "All I need to get are the hot dogs. Maybe I should tag along with you and reach down all those things they keep in the stratosphere."

The brown chipmunk eyes stared at Mark's groceries. "Well, I can certainly tell that's a man's cart. Chips, beer, peanuts, hot dog buns, mustard." She cocked her head at him. "Those aren't groceries; they're snacks. What about a vegetable? You can count sauerkraut, you know, to satisfy the food police. Or is that too much like _real_ food?" she grinned.

Mark snickered. "Tell ya what. You let me watch you shop and maybe I can pick it up as we go along." He extended a hand. "Mark McCormick."

"Audrey Templeton." She shook her head as they shook hands. "Let me introduce you to the produce aisle, Mark."

ooooo

"Where the hell _is_ he?" Judge Hardcastle looked at his watch and it still said four-thirty. He went to the front door again and the Coyote was still conspicuously absent.

"Okay, fine. If he misses the game, that's his loss. But I want my _peanuts_!" The judge plopped down in front of the television and tuned to the Dodgers game. At that moment, he heard the familiar grumble of the engine stopping in front of the house.

"Finally!" He turned his head and shouted "I'm in here, McCormick! And bring in the beer and the peanuts!"

The front door slammed and Mark came in carrying two grocery bags. "Here." He set one on the corner of the judge's desk and pulled out the bag of peanuts. Tossing it in the general direction of the television, he just managed to catch the grocery bag as it slipped off the desk.

"Hope there's no eggs in there," grumbled Hardcastle, as he picked up the bag of peanuts. "What took ya so long, anyhow?"

Since there was a car commercial on, he followed McCormick to the kitchen. "You have to dig the peanuts yourself and then roast them or something? You were gone more than two hours!"

"Why, Judge," McCormick was busily unloading one of the bags of food. "You missed me! How sweet. Here, put these in the freezer. They're not real cold anymore."

Hardcastle took the beer cans and shoved them in the freezer. "I didn't miss _you_; I missed my peanuts. Come on with that stuff. The game's about to start."

"Well, I'd be done faster if someone would _help_ instead of standing around doing a comedy routine on peanuts. Here, fridge." He handed over a plastic bag of Brussels sprouts.

"What the . . .these are Brussels sprouts!"

"I don't know why people say you're so dumb, Judge. You're right. Those _are_ Brussels sprouts and these are potato chips and these are . . .dammit. I left the hot dogs in Audrey's fridge."

"Audrey, huh?" Hardcastle put the offending vegetable in the fridge and turned back to face McCormick. "Is that the reason we have Brussels sprouts?"

"Yeah, kinda." Mark put a can of sauerkraut in the cabinet and continued, "Hasn't the game started by now?"

"Oops!" The two men headed for the den and their habitual seats for television watching. The judge lowered himself into his favorite leather chair and Mark stretched out on the couch, with his feet on the coffee table.

Hardcastle turned down the sound, and asked again, "Audrey, huh?"

Mark nodded as the Mets took the field. "Yeah, we met in the store. I helped her reach some stuff on the top shelves and she took me out for coffee."

"So how'd our hot dogs end up in her fridge?"

"She was worried about them getting warm, so we put them in her fridge and then went to this neat little coffeehouse in her neighborhood. It was fun, Judge."

The judge looked severely at his friend. "And now you can explain the Brussels sprouts in _our_ fridge."

Mark looked a little uncomfortable. "Well, we were looking at stuff and she said she knew this great way to cook them--"

"I know how ya cook 'em, McCormick," Hardcastle growled. "My mother used to fix Brussels sprouts and we all hated 'em. You boil 'em and stink up the whole house and then put vinegar on 'em and try to feed 'em to the dog without getting caught."

McCormick sighed. "Well, she said to try rolling them around in peanut oil and then put them in the oven for half an hour. Then, when they're just about done, you put in a little fancy mustard and stir them around again." He grimaced as Garvey grounded into a double play. "Come on, Judge. Just _try_ them. If you hate them, we'll buy a dog you can feed them to."

"Hmmmph. And what about our hot dogs? That was supposed to be dinner tonight." The judge opened the bag of peanuts and offered it to Mark, who grabbed a handful and leaned over to reach the wastebasket for the shells.

"I'll get the hot dogs tomorrow. We're going to the movies. There'll be something in the freezer we can have tonight. Oh, the beer!" and Mark was off to prevent a frozen beer explosion.

Coming back with two frosty cans, he saw the Mets already had two on and nobody out. "Terrific," he muttered.

Hardcastle took one of the cans from him and said, "So, tell me about Audrey. All I know so far is she drinks coffee and eats Brussels sprouts. And that she's about five foot seven, blond, has a tan from here to there and the I.Q. of a tree."

"Nope, you weren't paying attention, Hardcase. Oooh, that's trouble." A double had scored the two base runners and there was still nobody out. "Remember, I told you she couldn't reach the top shelf in the store. Actually, she's really not my type at all . . . if that's what you think my type is." He cracked a peanut and ate it. "She's about five foot nothing, with big brown eyes and brown hair and a round face. She's smart and funny and friendly and easy to get to know. Okay?"

"Okay with me," the judge took a pull on his beer can. "What movie you going to see? You can tell a lot about a woman by what movies she likes."

"Oh, yeah? " McCormick cracked another peanut. "Well, she suggested a Marx Brothers double feature. 'Monkey Business' and I forget the other one. What does that tell you?"

"Tells me she's got a sense of humor and an appreciation of classic films." Hardcastle snorted a laugh. "'Course I already knew about the sense of humor."

Mark looked at him quizzically.

"She's going out with you, isn't she?" The judge ducked a handful of peanuts.

ooooo

The next morning, Mark decided to empty the wastebaskets in the den, mostly because they were full of peanut shells. The one by the judge's desk was full to overflowing, and a few of the paper pieces fluttered onto the floor as he was emptying them into the black plastic garbage bag. As he collected the loose pieces, he noticed one that had been written in red ink and stopped to look at it more closely. It read, in block printing:

YOU ARE GOING TO SUFFER AS I SUFFERED AND THEN YOU WILL DIE

Mark examined it front and back, then left the trash collecting to head for the patio where Judge Hardcastle was reviewing the monthly bills.

"Judge!" Mark was unhappy and angry and in no mood to dissemble. "Judge! _Look _at this!" He handed over the paper he'd found. "I suppose you got this a couple of days ago and just forgot about it, huh? Just threw it away and never thought about it again. Right?"

"What?" Hardcastle took the paper and recognized it. "That? Yeah, I threw it away pretty much as soon's I got it. Why? What' s the big deal?" In a slightly more hostile tone, he added "And why're you going through my trash anyway?"

"I'm going through your trash because I'm emptying your trash cans and this fell out," said Mark deliberately. "And I suppose you weren't even going to mention that you got this. You just figured you could handle anything that comes along, so why even bother to tell old McCormick, who's riding along with you, that there might be somebody out there with a grudge against you. You probably never got in touch with the police, never showed this to any of them, never took any precautions, never _told_ me you might be in danger!" Mark sat at the small patio table across from the judge and looked straight at him. "Didn't it ever occur to you that I ought to know? That there might be things I would want to do to keep you safe? To try to find out who sent this? I thought we were kind of partners here, Hardcase." Mark looked away for a moment, squinting in the bright sun, then looked back at the judge. "I guess we're not. You're still the guy in charge. But you should've told me. Don't you think you owe me that much?"

Judge Hardcastle sighed deeply and leaned as far back as his patio chair would allow. "Okay, you had your turn; now, listen to my side. I get this stuff periodically. Sometimes it's people blowing off steam and I never hear from 'em again. Sometimes it's recently-released guests of the State and I'm usually notified beforehand when to expect to hear from them. Sometimes it's friends or relatives of people I sentenced and they send letters like this or postcards or even phone messages. They usually quit after a little while and if they don't, I see that someone in the department with a psychiatric degree visits with them and tries to explain things. That normally takes care of those. Very, very rarely, someone really _does_ come after me, but I've had warning of it from some source or other in nearly every case. Stuff like that letter, that's small time; it's probably not gonna be repeated. They got it out of their system and they'll feel better. See? Don't worry so much."

Mark just sat and watched him. "So, that's it. Somebody's threatened you, but that's just a part of life here in Hardcastle World, so don't sweat it. Right? Sorry, Judge, I just don't think I can do that." He stood up. "I'm taking this into Frank Harper and I'm gonna ask for an investigation and protection for you."

Hardcastle held up a hand. "Look. I can't stop you, but I _can_ tell you it won't do much good. Maybe I should'a told you when I got it, but I been getting 'em for years now and I tend to disregard any one that doesn't come with a note from the authorities. Maybe, if you take that downtown and discuss it with them, it'll make you feel better. Okay? Tell Frank I said hi and next week to bring pizza to poker night. It's his turn this week because he couldn't make it last time. Got that?"

Mark rose, shaking his head in disbelief. "Somebody wants to kill you and you're planning for pizza next week." He took the note from the judge and heading toward the garage. "I don't know when I'll be back, but it won't be before I get some answers."

ooooo

"Mark, I'm sorry," Lieutenant Frank Harper shrugged. "There's just nothing we can do if Milt won't accept our help. And there's not much anyone can tell you from this note since you've both handled it and crumpled it up and even the bad guys know enough not to leave fingerprints any more."

He handed the note back to McCormick, who was alternately pacing and leaning on Frank's desk.

"If it makes you feel any better, he's right about all this. Most of the calls and letters he gets are from loonies that get whatever they're looking for just by making a threat. When somebody's released or paroled that we have reason to suspect may actually _be_ a threat, Milt's notified and we keep a discreet eye on the person. You've got that security system at the estate, Milt's a professional, he's got you looking out for him. There's just not a lot else anyone can do."

Mark stopped pacing and leaned. "Oh, really? Let me tell you something about that so-called security system. The very first night I was there, a couple of goons climbed right over the main gate and came after me in the gatehouse. Okay, we've attended to that little defect, but too many people have keys to get in – the pool guy, the paper boy, the landscaping service. And there's the beach!" He resumed pacing. "Anyone who wants to get into Gull's Way can just take a little walk on the beach and come right up those steps onto the front lawn. They could hide in the trees and hedges for hours, waiting for Hardcastle to come out so they can take a shot at him. Frank," he leaned on the desk again. "There's _got_ to be _something_!"

Lieutenant Harper sighed and thought for a moment. "All right, I can make a couple of suggestions, but Milt's not gonna go for either one, I can tell you right now."

ooooo

"I'm not gonna do _that_!" barked Judge Hardcastle. "Are you crazy? A security guard? What for?" He glared at McCormick over his desk in the den. "We don't need a guard out here. We got a wall and alarms and locks and we _don't_ need a security guard."

"What about a guard dog?" Mark wasn't giving up. "Maybe a nice Doberman or a German Shepherd."

"No!" That was Hardcastle's definitive 'no', which meant absolutely not, and he wasn't going to even listen any more.

McCormick took a deep breath and made one last attempt. "Then I'm going to put up a gate across the beach steps. And it's going to be locked at night and I'm not going to argue with you about it."

The judge started to reply, then suddenly stopped. "A gate, huh?" He looked thoughtful. "If we put up a gate, and you're responsible for locking it every night, will that put an end to this paranoia?"

"It certainly would, if I was being paranoid." Mark knew when he'd gotten all he was liable to get. "I'll take some measurements this afternoon and see if we can get something installed tomorrow." He passed a weary hand over his brow. "I know you think I'm going overboard about this, Judge, but remember. I spent a couple of years with some of the scouts you sent to Camp Quentin and they were_ very_ serious about their plans for a jamboree with you."

"And I believe you. But _you_ have to remember_ this_. I've been dealing with this for years now and I'm still here. I appreciate you wanting to help and maybe the gate's a good idea. But right now, instead of measuring the steps, there's something else that you have to do." The judge looked at McCormick solemnly, then pointed at his watch. "You got a date tonight, hotshot, and it's already six-thirty."

With a muffled curse, Mark bolted out the front door, and down the steps. Judge Hardcastle heard the roar of the Coyote's abrupt departure, winced for the tires, and shook his head. Picking up the anonymous letter he'd received that afternoon, he mused quietly, "Maybe a gate's not such a bad idea."

ooooo

The next morning was typical Malibu; brilliant sunshine after morning fog, warmth but not heat, enough of a breeze to be enjoyable. Judge Hardcastle stretched on the sunny patio next to the pool and sighed in deep contentment. As he picked up his coffee mug, he heard a familiar voice calling his name and answered "Patio!"

Mark came around the corner of the garage and headed for the side of the pool. "Morning, Judge!" He was obviously in a good mood, as well.

"So, how was your date?" The judge was pouring another mug of coffee. "What's her name, Audrey, was it?"

"Yeah, Audrey. We had a great time." Mark sat and slurped at some hot coffee. "At least, I had a great time and I think she did, too." He put down the mug and looked at the other man. "I need to ask a favor, Judge."

Hardcastle waved a hand and said "Go ahead. Ask away."

"Audrey's moving this week-end and she needs some help with getting some of the heavy stuff onto the rental truck. I said I'd try to get some time off Saturday and help her out. If that's okay?"

Mark was pretty sure it was all right, but he was trying hard to follow the house rules since Hardcastle had agreed to put up a gate to the beach steps. What Mark hadn't made clear yet, was that the gate was going to be connected to the security system as well as locked. Meanwhile, it was only good policy to keep on the judge's good side.

"Moving? You're just getting to know her." Hardcastle poured himself another cup and offered the pot to McCormick.

"No," he waved the pot away and reached for the plate of toast. "She's just changing apartments. Seems her landlord upped her rent last month and she found a better place for less money. Oh, and I brought home some lost little doggies last night." Mark grinned and waited to see how long it would take.

It only took a few seconds before the judge got it. "Good! We can have them tonight with that sauerkraut you bought. That was a good idea. I don't know why we don't have sauerkraut more often with hot dogs. And sure. You can have the whole afternoon Saturday. We're pretty well caught up around here, right?"

"Except for the gate and I'm going to get on that this morning." Mark was piling scrambled eggs and bacon on his plate. "Thanks, Judge."

Hardcastle looked at the remaining toast and decided on one more piece himself. "So, tell me about Audrey," he said, reaching for the butter.

Mark's chewing slowed. He swallowed, but still didn't reply immediately. He stared off over the pool, then finally back at the judge. "I like her." He pushed some bacon around a bit, then added, "But I think maybe she's unhappy. Like there's some kind of big problem in her life or something. I don't know." He ate some more eggs, but with less enthusiasm than before, as though thinking interfered with his enjoyment of the food. "I mean, she laughs at stuff and seems to have a good time and be happy . . .but her eyes don't light up. It's like she's trying to be happy, but doesn't quite know how." He made a face. "I don't know how to put it. Does that sound crazy?"

The judge frowned at his remaining toast. "No. Not really. I _think_ I know what you mean." He picked up his coffee and thought for a minute. "Maybe she's had some big sorrow in her life and she's just now getting over it. Would that make sense?"

"Yeah. Maybe." Mark finished his coffee and poured another half a cup to linger over. "I still don't know her real well. Maybe I'm just imagining it all."

"Maybe. Well, get her moved and we'll have her over for dinner or something as soon as she's settled. You know," Hardcastle leaned back in his chair and looked at Mark thoughtfully over his coffee. "You can tell a lot about a woman by the way she eats."

"Oh, _please_." McCormick closed his eyes and leaned back himself. "More words of wisdom from Milton C. Hardcasanova. Go on, Judge, what can I tell other than whether she eats with her fingers, belches at the table or puts her elbows in the ketchup?"

"You can tell how she's been brought up and see if she offers to help out and find out what she likes and doesn't like and all kinds of stuff like that," answered the judge defensively.

"Fine, okay." Mark gave up. "Maybe next week sometime. That be all right with you?"

"Yeah, fine. Just find out what works for her and we'll set it up."

Mark smiled. "Yeah, she said she'd like to meet you."

ooooo

Mark glanced at the new gate to the steps as he headed into the main house to let the judge know he was leaving. It wasn't connected to the alarm system yet, but just having it there helped.

"Hey, Hardcase! Where are ya?" Mark peeked into the den, then continued down the hall toward the kitchen.

"In here." Judge Hardcastle answered just as McCormick pushed through the swinging door. "I figured you'll probably be a while at Audrey's so I was checking out the leftovers. Be sure you call me if you're not coming back by dinnertime."

"Right." Mark looked over the judge's shoulder into the fridge. "There's some lasagna in the freezer if you don't see anything you want in there." He turned away to grab an apple off the counter and saw the most recent anonymous threat lying there.

"When did you get this one?" he asked quietly.

Hardcastle looked over at him; then sighed, closed the refrigerator door and came to stand beside him.

"It came in this morning's mail. Same red ink, same message, same type of paper and envelope. No creativity, no imagination. This guy's gotten boring."

McCormick just stood there, looking at the message:

YOU ARE GOING TO SUFFER AS I SUFFERED AND THEN YOU WILL DIE

"Yeah, boring," he said softly. He turned to the judge suddenly and asked "Would it do any good if I asked you to be careful while I'm gone?"

"I'm _always _careful," the judge answered flippantly. He saw a Mark's look of disapproval and added more seriously, "I promise. I won't do anything stupid while you're gone. Good enough?"

McCormick took a deep breath and nodded. "I guess that'll have to do. Just remember, _I'm_ the one that does the stupid stuff around here and _you're_ supposed to be the sane, rational one."

"Okay. I'm glad we got that straight." Hardcastle gave Mark a pat on the shoulder which turned into a push. "Now go, will ya?" He turned back to the fridge, then added a shouted "And call if you're gonna be late!"

ooooo

"Mark, I can't tell you how grateful I am for all the help. I don't know how I would've gotten this done." Audrey wiped her face with the edge of her sleeve and sat heavily in one of the two lawn chairs, which were the only remaining furniture in the apartment.

McCormick looked around the nearly empty room and then smiled and shook his head. "Don't thank me; it's been a real nice change from cleaning out gutters and trimming hedges and doing laundry."

"Is that what you do for Judge Hardcastle?" She reached into the last box of kitchen things beside her chair and rummaged in it for a moment. "I thought you said he hired you to help him chase down criminals."

"Yeah." Mark plopped into the other lawn chair. "But that's supposed to be the _fun_ part; you know, getting shot at, being thrown off a train, getting into fistfights." He grinned. "Hardcase has some strange notions about recreational activity."

Audrey had pulled two plastic cups and an already opened bottle of red wine from the box labelled "Kitchen Things". She poured Mark a cup and passed it to him, then poured one for herself. "I want you to share this with me, Mark. It's a really good wine and I want to have half of it here, in this apartment, where I planned and dreamed so much. Then, we'll have the rest in the new place where my dreams will really come true."

"Gee, Audrey," Mark looked at the cup of wine. "I don't know . . .we've both got to drive--"

"Nope." She raised her cup in his direction. "One glass each here and then I'm treating you to a late lunch and coffee at Dino's. _Then_ the drive to my new place. Now, here's to dreams being fulfilled!" She raised her cup and Mark saluted her with his.

"Here's to dreams," he echoed and sipped at the rich red wine. "Mmm. This _is_ good, but a just little bitter."

"Probably the plastic," she said. "I bet it wears off after a bit." She placed her cup on the floor next to her, leaned forward and clasped her hands around her knees. "Now, I want to hear how you and Judge Hardcastle got together to hunt bad guys."

Mark realized this was the point at which he would have to tell her about having been in prison. He delayed momentarily by drinking more of the wine. "Well, that's actually kind of a strange story," he began. "I met the judge in court. At a trial. Mine." He checked her reaction.

She merely nodded interestedly for him to continue.

"See, I'd put my car in my girlfriend's name because of the size of my insurance premiums, but then we broke up and she wanted to keep my car. So, when I took it back, she called the cops and had me arrested for car theft. And that's how I met the Honorable Milton C. Hardcastle." Mark took another sip, while waiting for Audrey to respond.

"And he sent you to prison for stealing your own car?" she said in a shocked tone.

"Yep. And when I got out two years later, he looked me up and made me an offer I couldn't refuse. So, I spend most of my time doing yard work and household chores, with an occasional interlude of bad-guy-chasing." He took another sip. "This really _is_ good stuff." Another small sip. "Actually, it's like being the teen-age son of the house. I do my chores, get an allowance, get yelled at," Mark was starting to feel relaxed and content.

Audrey was watching him closely. "From what you've said about Hardcastle, it sounds like you two are pretty good friends. I find that a little strange considering he sent you to prison, Mark."

McCormick rested his head on the back of the lawn chair. Finding that uncomfortable, he straightened up again, finished his cup of wine and set it aside. "Yeah, I suppose it's a little strange. But that's the way it is. Thanks," he added, as she refilled his cup. "Ol' Hardcase is truly one-of-a-kind. We _are_ friends, now. _Best_ friends, in fact." Mark drank a little more wine, having stopped noticing the bitter aftertaste quite some time before. "Y'know, I never thoughta that before. It really kinda is strange that I don't even _remember_ that he sent me up any more." He looked at his cup muzzily. "Thought I finished that. Huh."

Audrey was smiling at him. "So, you two are best friends and he treats you like a son. That's what I wanted to hear. Why don't you finish that, Mark, while I take one last look around the place for anything I might've missed?"

Mark nodded blearily. "'Kay."

When she came back five minutes later, Mark's empty cup was lying sideways on the floor, and he was snoring gently.

Audrey slapped him tentatively, then more vigorously, but his only response was a mumble, then louder snoring.

She sat on the floor next to the telephone, lifted the receiver and dialled Judge Hardcastle's number.

"Yeah, Hardcastle here."

"Oh, Judge Hardcastle. This is Audrey Templeton and, well, I need to ask you . . . oh, dear. I don't want you to think that Mark . . ."she sighed.

The judge was puzzled but starting to be concerned as well. "Is there something wrong with McCormick?"

"No, no, not exactly." She turned to look at Mark and smiled. "No, it's just that I don't think he should drive a car right now. It's _all_ my fault, too."

"Well, could ya give me a little hint, here, of what exactly is going on?" The judge was even more puzzled and concerned now. "Is he there? Could I talk to him?"

"Oh, he's here, but you see, I opened a bottle of wine and I'm afraid Mark was thirsty and he may have drunk a little more than he meant to . . .but I shouldn't have bothered you," she said apologetically. "I'll just call a cab. I'm sorry, Judge Hardcastle. He should be home soon."

"Wait, wait." Hardcastle rubbed his forehead. "You're saying he's, uh, tipsy? And he shouldn't be driving. Is that it?"

"Well," she paused. "Um, I guess I didn't notice how much . . .he seems a little too sleepy to drive."

"Okay, look." The judge closed his eyes briefly. "I'm gonna come get him. Just don't let him get in the car, okay? Can you do that?"

"Oh, yes, I can certainly do that." She smiled again. "The apartment's at 401 E. Trent in Santa Monica. Number 4-A. I can keep him here if that's what you want."

"Yeah, that's what I want. I'll be there in about twenty minutes." Hardcastle hung up the phone disgustedly.

Audrey hung up at her end and laughed softly. "Here's to plans made and dreams fulfilled."

ooooo

Before the judge even had time to knock on the door, it opened to reveal a petite woman in her early twenties who immediately said, "Judge Hardcastle?"

He nodded in reply. "You're Audrey? Where's McCormick?"

Audrey turned away and led him through the short hallway to a door on the left. "He's in here." She opened the door and Hardcastle saw Mark lying on the bare floor of a small room, flat on his back.

"McCormick! Wake up!" the judge said disapprovingly. He started to approach his friend, but stopped when he felt a sharp point dig into his back and a cold voice said "Don't move."

Hardcastle came to an abrupt stop. "What's going on here?"

Audrey pulled a pair of handcuffs out of her pocket with her left hand, while keeping the serrated chef's knife firmly at the judge's back.

"You know," she said conversationally, "I'd never been in a sex shop before. But that's one place you can buy these with no questions asked." She fastened the judge's hands behind his back with the cuffs and then moved in front of him.

"Let me ask you something, Judge Hardcastle," she stood next to the deeply sleeping McCormick now. "Do you remember a man named Leonard Tuttle?"

"Tuttle." The judge remained calm, at least outwardly. "About eight years ago? Embezzlement? That the one?"

"Yes, that's the one. Leonard Tuttle was my father. My name's Arlene Tuttle and I'm going to kill you." She also appeared calm. Calm, but determined. "You sent my father to prison for stealing money from the company he worked for. Did you know he _died_ there four months later?"

"No, I didn't know that." Hardcastle was taking in the placement of the windows and door, looking for a telephone, trying to recall any walls that might be shared by another apartment. "I'm sorry."

"No . . . but you _will _be." Arlene smiled briefly. "He killed himself by jumping over a railing and falling thirty feet. He just couldn't stand being in there. And you're the one that's responsible for his death."

"Now, look." The judge was now trying to gently maneuver his way toward the windows. "Your father stole over forty thousand dollars from the company he worked for."

"For my mother! She was dying!" She drew herself up and stepped in front of him. "Get back over there, or I'll cut his throat right now." Arlene gestured with her free hand at the recumbent McCormick. "He wanted to make her last days good ones, but no one wanted to believe that. How could you send a man to prison for wanting to make his wife's death a little easier?"

"But that wasn't the whole story, was it? Two months after your mother died, he still had more than half that money in his bank account. He made no attempt at restitution; he was still spending the money he'd stolen." The judge tried to edge closer to McCormick, but she headed him off again.

"He was saving it for Christmas!" Arlene was becoming angrier, more defensive. "He wanted to give me lots of presents for Christmas and you sent him to prison! He died there and it's your fault!"

Judge Hardcastle tried to decide how far to push her and how best to take advantage if she finally lost her temper; he was also trying to decide how to get her to focus completely on him and leave the kid out of the situation.

"It's not my fault that he took that money. And it's not my fault that he committed suicide. _He_ was the one responsible for his actions and if you're mad about that, you ought to be blaming _him_, not me."

"You killed him. You sent him there and he died because of it." She had regained some of her self-control, but was white-faced and angry still. "Do you realize what that feels like? To lose the most important person in the world? To have to go on living without the one person who loved you, who took care of you, do you know what that's like?" She waved the knife back and forth a little. "You _will_ know. I've been watching you – you and _him_," she jerked her head at Mark. "I've sat on that hill across the highway from your house and watched the two of you for weeks now. And then I found a way to meet Mark. I was awfully clever about that, wasn't I? And he told me about you; how the two of you are best friends. About how he's like a son to you. I want you to suffer the way I did. You're going to find out what it's like to have your son die."

"I already know how that feels," the judge said coldly. "Do you think you're the only person in the world who's lost someone? Don't kid yourself. You're so wrapped up in self-pity and revenge you've lost touch with reality." He could see her start to tremble, mouth working in anger. "Get over it! People die. That's the way the world works and nobody's gonna feel sorry for you. I sure as hell don't."

"_Liar_!" she screamed suddenly. "You _don't_ know how I feel. _No one_ does." She stood right next to Mark, knife held to stab, pointed right at his chest. "But you will. You love him, don't you? _Don't you_! Say it, or I'll kill him right now!" Arlene panted, eyes wide and staring; flecks of saliva were collecting in the corners of her mouth. "_Say it_!" she shrieked.

"Okay, fine, whatever you say. Yeah, I love him. All right?" Hardcastle was shouting himself, inching closer, unnoticed by Arlene in her fury with him. "But you're not gonna hurt me any worse than I've already been hurt and that's why this whole stupid plan of yours is gonna fall apart! You're too dumb to realize this whole revenge thing won't take any of your pain away." He was only about a foot and a half from her now, readying himself for a leap at her, hoping he could at least make her angry enough to go directly for him and forget McCormick. "_Nothing_ takes the pain away. You just get used to it."

And then Mark clamped a hand around her ankle.

Arlene shrieked in surprise and anger and Hardcastle plowed right into her, both of them falling to the floor. He kicked out at her hand and managed to knock the knife loose. Mark had his hand tangled in her hair and was trying feebly to grab the hand that was clawing at him. Arlene continued screaming, wordlessly, scratching and wriggling, as the judge got to his feet. He located the knife and planted a foot on it before Arlene managed to scramble up again. As she looked around wildly, Hardcastle set himself, then charged straight at her. She dodged to avoid him and tripped over McCormick, falling toward the window. The judge watched in shock as she went right through the glass and down, out of his sight.

Breathing heavily, Judge Hardcastle went to the window and reluctantly looked down. There, on the grass six feet below, was a sprawled figure. As he watched, Arlene weakly lifted her head and moved an arm. Apparently, she was too dazed to attempt to stand.

The excited yapping of a small dog broke the silence that had followed the shattering of glass. On the sidewalk adjacent to the small yard where Arlene lay stood a horrified man who had been walking a schnauzer.

"Hey!" bellowed the judge. "Call the cops! And get an ambulance." He cast a glance over his shoulder at Mark. "Get _two _ambulances!"

He went back to McCormick and knelt down beside him. "Hey, kiddo. You still with me?" Mark opened one eye slightly and said "Hi." Then he went back to sleep.

ooooo

"So, then I got some guy out on the sidewalk to call the cops and a couple of ambulances. You pretty much know the rest of it." Judge Hardcastle sat at his desk and looked at Mark closely. "You sure you're feeling okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Mark said a trifle sheepishly. "Even _I_ couldn't sleep more than eighteen hours."

Hardcastle grunted. "You're just lucky she forgot to take the size difference into account."

McCormick looked at him questioningly.

"Didn't the doctor explain that? It seems she experimented on herself to see how many pills it took to keep her out, but she forgot you're a foot taller and a good fifty pounds heavier than she is." The judge rested his elbows on the desk. "Anyway, she's getting the help she needs now. It's up to the psychiatrists at this point to determine how responsible she is for what she did."

"Yeah." Mark looked at the floor moodily.

"So, what's bugging ya? I'd call this about the happiest ending we could've gotten out it. No more interesting correspondence, a new gate, you got the day off. What's the problem?"

McCormick shrugged, then shook his head. "I'm not sure. I guess . . . I guess I kinda feel responsible. I mean, she got to you through me." He kicked the corner of the desk gently a few times. "Sorry about that."

Hardcastle was staring at him, mouth agape. "You think it's your fault, what happened? Are you nuts? If I hadn't sent her father up, none of this would've ever happened. If anybody's responsible, other than Audrey/Arlene, it's _me_." He hit his head gently with the heel of his hand. "_Your_ fault. Good Lordamighty."

"Well," Mark said slowly, still gently kicking the desk, "maybe that's not all of it."

The judge waited patiently.

Mark sighed deeply, then hung his head. "See, I heard some of what was going on. I couldn't even open my eyes, and I don't really remember all of it very well, but . . . I know she said something about me being like a son to you and I _have_ to explain that. Judge, I never told her that and I don't _ever_ want you think I'm trying to take your son's place. I just said something about doing chores and running errands and getting an allowance like a kid would. I _swear_ it." He still hadn't looked at the judge. "I hope you believe me, but if you want to yell at me about it, then this would be a good time."

Hardcastle compressed his lips to hide a smile forming at the slumped figure in the wing chair.

"Nah, I think I understand. And I _do_ believe ya." It suddenly occurred to him that he'd said something to Arlene that he'd rather not admit to. He eyed McCormick suspiciously, rubbing his chin, then decided that old line about discretion and valor was appropriate.

"Now," he clapped his hands, then rubbed them together. "What's for supper?"

Mark had also decided on discretion when he'd been awake enough to recall what he'd overheard. It was enough that he'd heard it; it certainly wasn't something they'd ever talk about. "What've we got in the fridge?" He stood to follow the judge into the kitchen. "Oooh, I know! Brussels sprouts!"

Finis


End file.
